The Vexing Of Voldemort
by phantomduck
Summary: The life of a super villain is not as straight forward as it seems... Series of One-Shots
1. Chapter 1

"The Ministry has fallen," Rookwood informed Voldemort.

A cruel smile slowly etched itself across the Dark Lord's face. He nodded in appreciation and slowly pushed himself back into his chair.

"Excellent," he murmured locking his gaze on his subordinate, "you know what to do."

"The order has already been given," Rockwood gave his master a bow, "as we speak our Death Eaters should be apparating at the Weasley's wedding. If Potter is there, they'll find him."

"Good. Go join them," ordered Voldemort dismissing Rookwood with a wave of his hand, "there will no doubt be members of the Order there so expect a fight."

"Yes my lord," said Rockwood giving another bow before leaving his master along in the expansive room. On the way out he was almost knocked over by Stanley Higgins, who bustled passed him into the room carrying a box filled with various different sizes of paper. He was going to chastise him for it, but he saw that Stanley had a look of deep concern on his face as he scuttled passed and decided against it.

"My lord?" said Stanley to get Voldemort's attention as he approached the table.

"What is it Higgins?" sighed Voldemort. If Higgins was here it meant that something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Some is wrong my lord," explained Stanley as Voldemort cursed under his breath.

"What?"

"It's these expense claims you are trying to put through," said Higgins dumping the box onto the table and pulling out a handful of paper.

"What about them?" asked Voldemort trying to sound casual.

"You can't put them through."

"Who are you to tell me what I can and can't do? There is nothing that I, the greatest wizard ever seen, cannot do," said Voldemort standing up and towering over the smaller man.

"I'm your accountant that's who," retorted Stanley. _Bloody celebrities_, he thought to himself, _always think they are too good to bother with the paperwork._

"What can't I put through then?" asked Voldemort tersely, who despite being one of the most powerful wizards around floundered helplessly when presented with anything remotely bureaucratic.

"Firstly what's all this?" said Stanley picking up a pile of paper pinned together, "you are claiming for the purchase of two hundred and seventeen rats? Who the hell needs two hundred and seventeen rats?"

"That's for Nagini," replied Voldemort pointing at his pet snake currently curled up in the corner of the room, "what do you expect her to live on?"

"The snake?" asked Stanley rolling his eyes, "you've put it through as a business expenses? Food for your pet is definitely considered a personal expense."

"Hang on, hang on," said Voldemort reaching into one of the drawers on his desk and pulling out a well thumbed book. The corners of the pages were folded down in certain points and there were various different coloured labels sticking out of the pages. On the front cover was a picture of a man in a dull grey suit sitting behind a desk, with a long haired white cat on his lap, in the background out of the window you could make out a large volcano midway through erupting. The words 'Dummies' Guide to Being a Supervillain' were etched onto the front in big bold letters, and just underneath this was 'Foreword by Celine Dion' in slightly smaller writing.

"It's here somewhere," said Voldemort quickly flicking through the pages as Stanley tapped his foot impatiently. He suddenly jabbed his finger in a page, "ahh yes, here it is," he began to read from the book, "'one of the most recognisable signs of a Supervillain is the presence of a beloved pet. Nothing unnerves people as much as someone who can make cooing noises to an animal whilst at the same time torturing some poor soul to death'. There, Nagini is a required part of my super-villain persona and therefore it's a business expense."

"Fine," sighed Stanley, making a note on the top of the pages, "I'll try and put it through, but to be honest I'm not sure if the Inland Revenue will go for it."

"They will go for it, or I shall destroy them," snarled Voldemort clenching a fist together.

"Yeah, good luck with that," muttered Stanley shaking his head, "they didn't budge for Bono so I doubt they'll do it for you. Okay, onto the next item."

"There's more?" said Voldemort casting a quick look up at the clock, "fine, just make it snappy will you, I've got to torture two muggles and a mudblood before lunch."

"Well there is quite a lot for you to sign," said Stanley pointing down into the box filled with various documents.

"Fine," said Voldemort shaking his head, he picked up a cone shaped tube on his desk and began to speak into it. "Hello? Clare? Damn it, is this thing on?"

"You need to push the button," explained Stanley helpfully.

"Which button? This one? Hello? Clare? Hello? See, it's not working."

"Are you pushing it all the way down?"

"Of course I… do I honestly look like someone who doesn't know how to push a button? I came back from the dead; I think pushing a button is something I am capable of. Hello? Clare?"

"Merlin's Beard," spat Voldemort, he leaned to the left in his chair so that he could see out into the vestibule beyond the door, "CLARE! CAN YOU COME IN HERE?"

There was a slight pause followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back against the wooden floor. The sound of heels clipping against the floor echo through into the room a few seconds before Clare Haddington step into it. She peered over her thin-rimmed spectacles as she walked towards the table, in her hand she held a small pad of parchment and pulled out a small quill that had been lodged into her hair.

"Why didn't you use the tube?" she asked in a weary sounding voice, pointing at the device that had vexed Voldemort.

"Because it doesn't work."

"Did you press the button?"

"Of course…" he looked between Stanley and Clare, "what is it with people and thinking I can't push a button? I'm the Dark Lord don't you know?"

"That as it maybe," said Clare coolly, "but do you remember the water dispenser? You couldn't get that to work either but nobody else had a problem with it did they? Not until you blew it away with a spell."

"I won't let my Death Eaters talk to me with so little respect," snapped Voldemort narrowing his eyes, "what makes you think you can get away with it?"

"Oh?" said an unfazed Clare raising an eyebrow, "and I suppose you'll be able to manage your diary by yourself will you? What about all your filing then? You can't even remember to feed the fish without me."

"Well… I don't think…"

"What's your account number at Gringotts?"

"Er… I know this, wait, don't tell me," Voldemort scratched his chin, before suddenly remembering, "it's eleven."

"You don't actually have an account at Gringotts," replied Clare making Voldemort frown, "that's why you had Lestrange store those items in her vault for you."

"So what's eleven then?"

"That would be your shoe size," said Clare with all the patience of a saint, "is there any particular reason you called me in here? Because I've got to pick up your dry cleaning."

"Oh yes," said Voldemort tapping his fingers on his desk, "can you move those muggles and that mudblood I'm torturing until after lunch please?"

"Okay," said Clare making a note on her pad, "but you are going to have to move some stuff around."

"What's right after lunch?"

"You're meeting with Pius Thicknesse to decide on implementing policies in the Ministry."

"Hmmm, can't move that one. After that?"

"You have a two o'clock with the leader of the giants."

"Oh I can't miss that," muttered Voldemort, "that's an important alliance, plus it'll take while too., since I'll have to use small words. What have I got on at five o'clock?"

"Kill Harry Potter," said Clare, scratching her chin with the end of the quill.

"Okay, move that one I suppose."

"Again?"

"What do you mean again?" snapped Voldemort.

"Well you've already moved it a few times," explained Clare, "if you're not going to bother doing it, why have it in your diary?"

"I am going to bother doing it," retorted Voldemort looking annoyed, "I just haven't got around to it yet."

"It's the whole build-it-yourself barbeque incident all over again isn't it? How long was that left in the box outside?"

"A couple of weeks," mumbled Voldemort looking down.

"Try six months and that was only because we needed it for the Annual Death Eater Family picnic."

"It got done didn't it?" snapped the Dark Lord.

"Only because I kept nagging you," Clare pointed out, "fine, look I'll move it but this has to be the last time, you make sure you kill Harry Potter okay?"

"Yes," replied Voldemort rolling his eyes.

"Good," said Clare making a note on the pad and turning around, her clipping shoes ringing out as she retreated.

"If she wasn't so efficient I would have killed her a long time ago," said Voldemort fondly to Stanley, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them, "so, what's next?"

"The Dark Mark," stated Stanley, "we have to stop using it."

"What?" asked Voldemort leaning forward in his chair, "stop using the Dark Mark? Are you mad? Why would we stop using it? This isn't a copyright issue is it?"

"Oh no nothing like that."

"Good," nodded Voldemort, "I still can't believe we were sued by Warner Brothers. So what is it then?"

"It's all these insurance claims," said Stanley picking up a bundle of pages, "every time a house is destroyed or people are killed, they put in a claim against us, our insurance premiums are through the roof at this stage."

"But killing people is what we do," complained Voldemort, throwing himself back in his chair, "what's our motto?"

"'If it moves, kill it'," said Stanley in a voice that suggested he'd said it a hundred times before.

"Exactly, so what you're saying we can't do it any more?"

"Oh no," said Stanley shaking his head, "killing people is fine, it's just we have to stop plastering the Dark Mark all over the place, it makes it really hard to argue that it wasn't anything to do with us."

"But I want them to know it's us," snorted Voldemort, "how else are we going to strike fear into the populous?"

"I'm just asking for a bit of manoeuvring," Stanley reiterated, "everyone is going to assume that you or the Death Eaters are responsible, just as long as the Dark Mark isn't there then I can at least make a case against the claims."

"No, I don't like it," said Voldemort shaking his head, "the Dark Mark is important."

"Okay how about this?" said Stanley trying to find a compromise, "we only use the Dark Mark when we're done some important bit of evil."

"Like?"

"Well murder or maiming will obviously be covered. But it is being used for some pretty trivial stuff. Last week Goggin knocked over her neighbours' rubbish bins and sent up a Dark Mark, the other week Crawford fed some animals at London Zoo, despite what the sign on the cage said and sent one up. It's getting a bit ridiculous to be honest."

"Fine, fine," conceded Voldemort waving a hand, "I'll have a word with them… hang on."

The tube on the desk had suddenly come to life, shaking slightly. Stanley could hear the sound of Clare's muffled voice quietly come from the end of it.

"Yes?" said Voldemort picking it up and speaking into the end of it, "what do you mean they couldn't find him? Did they check all the wedding guests? Hello? Hello?"

There was a stifled exchange coming from the other end of the phone, Stanley couldn't hear what was being said but to be honest he had a fair idea.

"I am pressing the..." said Voldemort angrily, before leaning over to the left and calling out of the room, "I AM PRESSING THE BUTTON DOWN!"

There was another flurry of voices from the other end of the tube.

"NO," Voldemort again shouted out of the room, "I'M PRESSING THE RED ONE. GREEN ONE? WHAT GREEN ONE? SINCE WHEN HAS THERE BEEN A GREEN ONE? WHERE?" he looked around on the base of the machine and finally located a second button. "I FOUND IT….sorry," he apologised into the tube after a blast of angry chatter erupted from the end of, "I found it. What's the red one for then? Well that's a stupid place to put that. No, I didn't read the instruction manual, who reads an instruction manual? Fine, look, just keep me updated okay?"

He put the tube down and looked at Stanley, "so are we done?"

"I'm afraid not," admitted Stanley, taking out another stack of paper, "I'm gonna have to get you to go through these timesheets with me, to be honest I think some of the guys are taking the piss, excuse my language, with some of the overtime they have been claiming."

_They only ever mention the__ glamorous side of being a super-villain _thought Voldemort as Stanley prattled on enthusiastically, _if someone had mentioned all the paperwork involved, I think I'd have rather taken up fishing._


	2. Chapter 2

"I am the Dark Lord," muttered Voldemort impatiently tapping his foot, "I don't see why I have to wait in a queue with these filthy muggles."

"Because, as I've explained numerous times, this is the way things are done here," replied Stanley patiently. He had been working as Voldemort's accountant for the last six months and had quickly become used to his employer's frustration with bureaucracy.

"Soon they will learn they way I do things," snarled Voldemort gripping his hand into a fist. The two men were standing outside of a large bank in the centre of London, both were dressed in immaculate black suits and Stanley carried a large brown leather briefcase in one hand.

"No no no," said Stanley quickly, "what did we agree?"

"No killing," mumbled Voldemort rolling his eyes.

"And why no killing?" asked Stanley.

"Because they'll have to shut the bank and we won't get what we want," replied Voldemort in a monotone voice.

"Exactly," said Stanley looking rather proud. It had been something that had taken most of the previous night to filter into Voldemort's head.

"Can I kill them after I get what we want?" asked Voldemort hopefully.

"No," said Stanley pulling a ghastly face, "we've been over this, nothing that'll get us noticed, that means; no killing, no maiming, no fires, no magic full stop. Okay?"

"I don't see why…"

"Precisely, you don't _see_, you aren't used to dealing with the muggle world," admitted Stanley, "that's why you employ me. And in the muggle world you can't just go around killing people when you feel like it, people will start investigating, questions will be asked, it's just best all round if we go by the rules on this one."

"Fine," muttered Voldemort looking at a group of nearby muggles in discussed, "I don't know why we don't keep all our money in Gringotts anyway."

"Do you know how many people you employ?" asked Stanley raising his eyebrows quizzically.

"I don't know," said Voldemort counting in his head, "about a dozen."

"Try hundreds, if you include your entire spy network," countered Stanley. "Now all you would need is one person working in Gringotts who is loyal to the Order of the Phoenix, to get hold of our payroll details and bang they have our entire membership list. This is the easiest way to safeguard that list. It would be the last thing they would expect."

"I suppose," Voldemort hated being out in muggle society, but Stanley had proved himself to be an adept accountant over the months, "but why have I got to do this? Can't you?"

"You're the only one who is allowed to sign for cheques, remember?" Stanley reminded him, "I suggested allowing me to sign as well but you wanted to be the only one, and because of that only you can collect the new chequebooks. Now, do you need me to come in with you? It's just that I have to drop home for a quick moment."

"Of course not," snapped Voldemort, "do you take me for some kind of imbecile?"

"No, but you aren't use to having to blend into muggle life," explained Stanley carefully, "so I thought you might need a little help…"

"The Dark Lord needs no help with anything," snorted Voldemort striding towards the main door of the bank and pushing it.

"Er… it says pull," said Stanley helpfully as Voldemort struggled to force the door open. He flashed the accountant a look of malevolence before closing his hand around the handle and wrenching the door back. "I'll see you back at Malfoy Manor."

Voldemort stepped into the wide open space; he could hear the murmuring of low conversations echoing out across the floor. He looked up at the humming of an air conditioning unit that was pumping out a cool breeze which came as a welcome relief from the hot temperatures outside. He faltered for a moment as he realised he wasn't entirely sure where he needed to go, he quickly looked back outside and cursed under his breath when he saw that Stanley had already left. He turned to look around the building.

His gaze filtered across the room taking in as much detail as he could. He watched as people approached various cashier's desks or were taken into small offices by the bank staff for important looking discussions. Eventually his eyes fell upon a wide desk close to the entranceway; he observed a number of people queuing in front of it before being called forward to talk to the blonde smiling woman behind the counter. After a few minutes they would either head off towards the cashiers, take a seat next to the desk or leave the bank altogether. This was definitely the best place for him to start.

He wandered over uncertainly and stood patiently in the queue before eventually being called forward by the blonde woman.

"Yes sir," beamed the woman, flashing him a row of brilliant white teeth, "and how can I help you?"

"I need a book," stated Voldemort confidently.

"Erm…I'm not sure you are in the right place," admitted the woman, still maintaining her smile, "there is a bookshop just down the street, and maybe you'll have better luck there."

"No it's definitely a book from the bank that I need," reiterated Voldemort, he tried desperately to rack his brains for the word that Stanley had used the night before; "I need a Shick book."

"Oh a cheque book," exclaimed the woman, her smile fixed onto her face. Clearly she was dealing with an idiot, "what's the name?"

"A cheque book," replied Voldemort nodding helpfully, clearly he was dealing with an idiot.

"No, I mean what's the name on the cheque book?"

"I didn't know they had names," admitted Voldemort. Stanley had failed to mention anything about a name to him.

"What is your name?" asked the woman patiently trying a different approach.

"I am Lord Voldemort," he stated drawing himself up to his full height, and felt slightly disappointed that the name did not result in the usual shuddering it did amongst the wizarding community.

"Okay is that with an 'a' or an 'e'?" asked the woman as her fingers danced across what seemed to be a board with various buttons stuck onto it.

"It's with a 'v'," Voldemort frowned – _idiot muggles,_ he thought.

"I mean is it Vold-_a_-mort or Vold-_e_-mort?" clarified the woman – _idiot customers_, she thought.

"Oh Vold-_e_-mort with an 'e'," he explained.

The woman's fingers began dancing on the board again, peering over Voldemort could see that the majority of the buttons had letter of the alphabet on them. The woman paused in her typing and frowned.

"Nope," she said shaking her head, "nothing coming up under Vold-_e_-mort, I have a Stuart Vold-_a_-mort, is that you?"

"No, that is not me," said Voldemort through clenched teeth.

"No," said the woman after tapping a few more times on the lettered board, "nothing is coming up for me; it is definitely under that name is it?"

"Ah, well you could try under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," said Voldemort after a few moments thought. He cast a look of annoyance over his shoulder at the next person in the queue behind him; a little old lady who had her arms folded and was tapping her foot impatiently.

"He..."

"Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," finished Voldemort with a nod.

"Right," said the woman slowly, her smile faltering slightly for the first time. Despite being sure of the outcome she diligently input the name. She shook her head, "nope that's not coming up either."

"You-Know-Who, try that one."

"I know who? I really don't."

"No," said Voldemort shaking his head, "try the name You-Know-Who."

_I don't get paid enough for this_ – thought the woman looking around to see if this was one of her colleagues playing a joke on her while she tapped in the name. "Nope, sorry nothing there under that."

"Riddle!" exclaimed Voldemort making the woman jump slightly, "Tom Riddle, try that one."

"Okay," said the woman, the smile now wiped from her face. "Oh here it is, Tom Riddle. Yes, there is a cheque-book here under that name."

"Excellent," said Voldemort rubbing his hands together, he gave the old lady behind him a look of triumph.

"Okay all I need to see is some I.D. from yourself and I'll go get that for you."

"I.D.?"

"Identification," replied the woman slowly.

"Oh yes," said Voldemort patting his pocket before drawing his wand, placing it down on the counter and looking expectantly at the woman.

"Er… while that is a very nice stick," the blonde woman pointed at the wand languishing on the counter, "I'm actually going to need some kind of picture identification."

"All I have is this," stated Voldemort grasping his hand around the wand.

"I'm afraid it has to be a driver's licence or a passport," the blonde woman apologised, the fixed grin etched its way back onto her face.

Voldemort looking down at his wand, then at the beaming insincere smile of the blonde lady, then at the old lady behind him who was no longer tapping her foot impatiently but rather stomping it loudly whilst glaring at him.

****

Stanley Higgins slumped down into his armchair and quickly flicked through the post that had been building up on the mat inside his front door.

"Bill, bill, junk mail," he muttered as he flipped through pile, more or less discarding them straight into the bin without a second thought.

He leaned forward and picked up his cup of tea and took a long sip of the warm brown liquid.

"Ahh," he let out an extended satisfied sound as he settled back into his chair. He reached for the television remote that was sitting in its pride of place on the armrest and flicked it on. The screen burst into life and showed a rather haphazard scene unfolding on the local news.

Stanley sat forward and realised he recognized the building on the screen. He jammed his finger on the volume button until he could hear what was going on.

"… moments ago," said the reporter as flames licked the building behind him, "this relatively quiet corner of the city was rocked as a large explosion ripped through what used to be the Crouch End branch of Hatfield Bank. Although at the moment it is unclear what happened, eyewitnesses recall a disturbance immediately prior to the explosion where a man was arguing with a member of staff at the customer service desk."

"Oh God," said Stanley putting down his cup and rubbing his temple with his hand, "son of a…"


	3. Chapter 3

"I just don't understand it sometimes," complained Voldemort bitterly, before lifting up a glass full of dark golden liquid and draining it in one go. He let out a soft satisfied sigh. "I mean I ask them to do one simple job and they can't even get that right."

"I know what you mean," rasped Emperor Palpatine, his hooded cloak pulled around him tightly so that only the edge of his nose could be seen poking out.

"Don't get him started," warned Mumm-Ra pulling a loose strand from one of the dressings that wrapped his entire body.

"Started on what?" asked Voldemort, leaning back in one of the comfortable chairs that were prevalent throughout the Super Villain's Private Members Club.

"Years to build it," spat the Emperor.

"Now you've done it," muttered Mumm-Ra looking around to try and attract the waitress who had been buzzing around a raucous table for most of the evening.

"All that planning," the Emperor continued to reminisce looking off into the middle distance, "all those years of building it in secret, and when finally when my beautiful Death Star was completed, boom, some know nothing do-gooder comes along and shoves a torpedo down the exhaust port."

"Really?" asked Voldemort, as Mumm-Ra began to wave enthusiastically in the direction of the waitress, "just one shot did all that? That doesn't sound like it was built very well."

"Built well? Built well? Of course it was bloody built well," snapped the Emperor, "especially after the amount those contractors charged. It was the architect's fault anyway. It was a stupid place to put it in the first place."

"You signed off on it," Voldemort pointed out, despite the look that flashed across Mumm-Ra's face trying to tell him to leave it.

"Of course I signed off on it," complained the Emperor, "it was the size of a sodding small moon. 'Build me a flying citadel that can destroy a planet', that's what I said to him, and that's what he did. I wasn't going to go over every inch of the plans to check on whether or not there was a weak spot that could be exploited by a single fighter."

"Bet you wish you had now," muttered Voldemort, pleased that someone was having just a bad a time of it as he was.

"Oh you're damn right," said the Emperor slamming his hand down on the table, luckily for Mumm-Ra this noise attracted a look from the waitress who hurried over to take their orders, "the second I got the call from Lord Vader, I pulled out those plans straight away and you know what I saw? Oh, sorry, I'll have another glass of white wine please."

"I'll have another scotch," Voldemort nodded towards the waitress, "what did you see in the plans?"

"Well I saw a whole bunch of stuff that didn't need to be there," complained the Emperor, while he and Voldemort tried to ignore the fact that Mumm-Ra had ordered a Fuzzy Navel, which they both hoped was a type of cocktail, "and I don't just mean a poorly designed exhaust port. There was a twelve screen cinema for God-sake, not to mention a bloody dog track, and the less said about the opera house the better. There was even a bloody chapel! On a Death Star! I sorted that architect out, that's for sure."

"Killed?"

"Worse," the Emperor nodded towards one of the walls where a statue of a man seemed to be frozen in a state of anguish, "sealed in Carbonite, he'll be stuck there for the rest of his life."

"You think you have problems," muttered Voldemort, "I sent a group of my best and most loyal followers to simply retrieve a single item and guess what they get stopped by? A bunch of children! Honestly, what is the world coming to when your best henchmen get stopped by snot nosed brats?"

"You're starting to sound like Old Man Jenkins," cautioned Mumm-Ra nodding towards the corner of the room where a skinny wizened man was nursing a glass of beer with a solemn look on his face, "week in week out he's always going on about how he 'would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for those pesky kids'. I keep telling him the fake ghost in the amusement park scheme is a real non starter."

"It's all he knows," muttered the Emperor, "actually saying that, that's all I know about him really. He owns an amusement park and he likes to throw a sheet over himself every now and then."

"That's the way with all Super Villains," shrugged Voldemort, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass, "you only ever hear the bad side of them, anything else just gets forgotten about. Everybody always mentions now I tried to take over the wizarding world, or how I was defeated by a baby. They aren't the only things about me that are interesting. No one mentions my love of sculpting or my spoken word album; it got to number seventeen in the charts."

"I think I picked up a copy of that," admitted Mumm-Ra supportively.

"Ah God," said the Emperor looking over at the entranceway to the room, he tried to shift down in his chair, "don't look now but Skeletor just walked in."

"Damn," said Voldemort looking quickly over his shoulder, "no one make eye contact, maybe he won't spot us."

"Too late," muttered the Emperor, "I think he is coming this way."

"Quick," ordered Mumm-Ra, waving a hand at the other two, "fan out so it looks like there isn't enough room at the table."

"If I have to hear another story about how 'He-Man foiled this' and 'He-Man thwarted that' I swear I am going to kill him myself," hissed Voldemort under his breath.

Skeletor weaved his way through the various tables making a beeline for theirs. On the way he tapped a waitress on the shoulder and gave her his drink order. He pulled a spare seat from another table and wedged it in between Voldemort and Mumm-Ra, oblivious to the fact that they had both stretched their legs out into the space he was trying to position his chair.

Voldemort and Mumm-Ra both rubbed their legs which had been unceremoniously battered out of the way as Skeletor plonked himself down into the chair. There was an expectant pause.

"He did it again!" spat Skeletor in his grating voice after a momentary silence.

"Did what?" sighed Voldemort, looking longingly across at the group of 'popular' Super Villains, who were all chatting animatedly.

"I almost had it," said Skeletor shaking his head, "I was so close to unearthing the secrets of Castle Grayskull I could taste it."

"You can actually taste?" asked Mumm-Ra, looking at the skeletal features of the new comer sceptically.

"Of course I can taste," countered Skeletor, annoyed to have been interrupted mid venting, "I'm a skeleton, I'm not dead."

"Er…" started the Emperor before deciding that it was probably better just to keep quiet.

"Anyway," Skeletor continued, "there I am, about to finally have Eternia under my boot and along comes Mr 'I-Have-The-Power' and throws a spanner in the works."

"I know that feeling," commented Mumm-Ra, "but it's worse for me, at least you keep getting stopped by a human, I keep getting foiled by these weird cat people hybrids, what the hell is a Thundercat anyway?"

"You know just once," muttered Voldemort finishing his drink, a warm glow formed in his stomach as the alcohol drained into his system, "I'd like to come out on top against those do-gooders."

****

"Shh," ordered Voldemort trying to flag the other three into silence, which wasn't easy seeing as Skeletor was giggling inanely, Mumm-Ra balanced a small orange traffic cone on his head and the Emperor was still trying to convince them to go get something to eat.

The four Super Villains crouched down behind a car, with the exception of Mumm-Ra; their heads were barely visible over the bonnet of the vehicle.

"Okay," said Voldemort after a few seconds of trying to make up his mind, "I'm going to do it."

He quietly scurried away, flitting between the dark patches between the lamp light as the other three looked on.

"He's not going to do it," commented the Emperor, peering into the darkness.

"He is you know," said Mumm-Ra excitedly, the traffic cone slipping momentarily over his eyes.

They watched as Voldemort snuck quietly up to the door of one of houses in the estate. His dark cloak billowed as a breeze of wind caught him. He crept slowly up to the door and carefully placed a brown paper bag on the doorstep. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his wand and aimed it at the package. A jet of orange flame sprang forth and engulfed the bag setting it on fire. Voldemort quickly reached up and rang the doorbell before turning quickly and running back towards the others.

He dived over the front of the car, and landed awkwardly on the on ground. All four men quickly turned their attention back to the house where the bag was now a small ball of flame on the doorstep.

The door opened. A skinny black haired boy with glasses glanced down at the flaming package and looked shocked. He brought his foot down onto it, stamping out the fire as quickly as he could. There was a sudden pause. He wrinkled his nose and lifted up his foot to examine it.

"How do you like that Potter?" shouted Voldemort standing up from behind the car, the other three began whooping and cheering as they too jumped up and taunted the young boy. "There's plenty more where that came from too!"

The boy looked up and panicked. He retreated back into the house and slammed the door shut.

"Ha ha ha," laughed Voldemort in triumph, as the Mumm-Ra slapped him on the back in a congratulatory manner. Their laughter increase when a few moments later the door of the house was opened once again and the young boy deposited his shoes out on the doorstep.

"Where to now?" asked the Emperor wiping a joyful tear from his eye.

"How about a quick stop over to the Cat's Lair?" asked Mumm-Ra taking out a brown paper bag from his pocket, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially and grinning.


	4. Chapter 4

"So Dumbledore," Voldemort sneered giving his opponent a withering look of derision, "it's been a long time."

The Dark Lord pulled back his cloak to reveal his face, the sunlight shining into the room casting a dark shadow across it.

"As you can see, not even Death can defeat me. I, who have travelled further along the roads of magic then any one before. Not even the great Salazar Slytherin has achieved what I have done."

Voldemort flicked his hand aside causing his robe to open slightly. His wand gleamed in the sunlight. He held his hand over it.

"Oh what's that?" he asked edging his hand closer to his weapon, "you think that you can destroy me? You think the amazing Albus Dumbledore is better than I? You're nothing but an old washed up relic, I am the future of magic. Now prepare to die."

Voldemort's hand moved in a blur as he gripped his wand and raised it quickly, "pow! Ha, you're dead old man."

There was a slight knock on the door. Voldemort look away from the mirror and hastily put his wand away, with one more look around the room he called out "enter!"

The door slowly opened and Clare Haddington, Voldemort's personal assistant, peered around the frame looking at him through her thin-rimmed spectacles.

"Yes?" asked Voldemort tersely.

"There's a Mr Murray downstairs to see you," she replied coolly, having learnt to ignore her employer's abrupt personality.

"Ah yes," said Voldemort allowing his mouth to form into a mirthless smile, "I'm due to inspect the new Death Eaters."

"Exactly," agreed Clare, she looked around the room with a frown on her face, "who were you talking to?"

"No one," replied Voldemort quickly, "I wasn't talking to anyone."

"Yes you were," retorted Clare, "I could hear you when I was about to knock."

"You're mistaken, it was probably the gramophone," explained Voldemort, nodding towards the device which sat on a table. It was being pointedly silent on the matter.

"Nope, it was definitely your voice" said Clare shaking her head. She looked at Voldemort and then at the mirror, she cocked her head to one side, "you weren't pretending to be fighting Dumbledore again were you?"

"Who me?" asked Voldemort looking astounded, "of course not. Stupid girl. I have better things to be doing than that. Anyway, so what if I was? I'm allowed to aren't I?"

"Of course you are," said Clare soothingly, "you're allowed to do whatever you want, but try not to set fire to the carpet like last time."

"I didn't set the carpet on fire," complained Voldemort.

"Oh that's right," said Clare remembering, "you said an owl flew in through the window and must have knocked over a candle."

"Exactly."

"Through the sealed window," clarified Clare pointing at the glass.

"I can't stand here all day arguing with you over this," snapped Voldemort heading towards the door, "I have to oversee these new recruits. Shouldn't you have some filing to do or something?"

_Bloody woman_ – thought Voldemort as he stomped down the stairs, – _I'm the Dark Lord for god's sake, who does she think she is? Telling me what I can and can't do._

At the bottom of the stairs, waiting patiently, was Ebenezer Murray. A short squat balding man, he was twirling his wizard's hat nervously in his hands.

"Murray," Voldemort greeted the anxious man with a slight nod as he descended the stairs and continued onward, "are they ready?"

"Almost sir, almost," Murray admitted bowing low, before falling into step behind the Dark Lord, "we have a number of promising candidates, they are just going through the final stages of preparation, I'm sure you'll be most impressed."

"Careful Murray," Voldemort said warningly, "it sounds as if you are telling me what I should be doing."

"No sir," stammered Murray quickly as the two men excited the building and headed towards the main gate, where the magical barrier prohibited anyone from apparating in or out of the property, "I would never dream of doing such a thing."

Voldemort gazed around the new location they'd just apparated to, they were standing before a large building with ominous looking gargoyles looked down on them from above. Despite himself, Voldemort nodded at the imposing building. Above the impressively huge door the following words were engraved 'Mortimer's School for Henchmen and Henchwomen.'

"This way my Lord," said Murray bowing, before leading towards the front door.

"I must say," said Voldemort as the two men entered the complex, "I wasn't entirely convinced at first that your organisation would be up to the task. But you came highly recommended, so I'll be interested in seeing what you have achieved."

"I assure you my Lord," Mr Murray replied quickly, grabbing a handkerchief from his top pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow, "you will be more then satisfied with the final results."

"I think I'll be the judge of that," sneered Voldemort, glancing occasionally into the passing classrooms.

Murray pushed open a pair of double doors, and the quiet sound of the hallway was suddenly replaced with sounds of hurried commotion. They were now standing in a large vaulted room filled with numerous people engaged in various different activities. Voldemort's eyes fell onto the closest group, who were using their wands to fire stunning spells at dummies placed about ten feet away from them. Every single one of their shots found their target.

"These are the raw recruits," explained Murray waving a hand towards the room in general. They began to walk through the room towards another set of double doors at the far end, "don't worry, after an intensive couple of months with us, they'll be perfect henchmen."

"I should expect nothing less," admitted Voldemort casually stepping over the prone body of someone who'd just lost a duel, "after all I am paying you an exuberant fee for your services."

"And you'll see that the money has been well spent," replied Murray as they reached the second door, "just through here my lord."

They stepped through into an identical room, although this time, instead of the hustle and bustle of the previous one, they found a group of men and women waiting patiently to attention along one side of the room. At the end of the group closest to Voldemort and Murray was a man whose very stance implied he was an instructor. (It could have been the clipboard held protectively to his chest, or the whistle that hung on a string around his neck or the bright red tracksuit with the word 'instructor' emblazoned on the back.)

"These are the most recent graduates," said Murray waving a hand towards the group.

"Well," muttered Voldemort looking at the group with an unflinching glare, "are they any good?"

Murray nodded towards the instructor.

"Right, you sorry bunch of miscreants," barked the instructor, "let's show these gentlemen what you can do. Parker!"

The man named Parker stepped forward and drew his wand up. He pointed it directly at a dummy on the far side of the room, and glanced towards the instructor expectantly.

"Fire!"

Parker let go with a flurry of spells, slowly advancing each time until he was completely on top of the target. As the last attack dissipated he stopped and looked back at the instructor expectantly.

"Not a single spell hit the dummy," said the instructor, "a one hundred percent success rate on the targeting, although I would have liked to seen you fumble your wand and dropped it at the end, other then that a job well done."

"It takes a while for us to override their natural aiming abilities," explained Murray as each of the trainee henchmen took it in turns to show how close they could get their spells to the target without actually hitting it, "but once they do they'll be missing like the best of them."

"Very good," Voldemort nodded appreciatively as the trainees began taking it in turns to show their lack of aiming prowess, "are you only teaching them to miss or do they have other skills?"

"McKinley!" Murray called out to one of the trainees and beckoned him over, "McKinley, when taking a captured enemy into custody what do you do?"

"Firstly you must search and disarm the captive," replied McKinley, staring straight ahead, clearly reciting from memory, "but always remembering to accidentally miss finding a carefully conceal knife or lockpick. Then you must place them into a cell or holding room which is out of your eye-line so you cannot spy on what they are doing. Finally there should be enough discarded items left in the room so that the captive can use his hidden knife to cobble together either a rope ladder or elaborate weapon which will aid in their escape."

"Excellent," beamed Murray, patting the man on the shoulder, "word for word perfect."

"I don't need henchmen who follow the book; I need people who can think on their feet," snapped Voldemort, he advanced and looked McKinley straight in the eye. "You're guarding a prisoner, when you suddenly hear them crying out in pain from the cell, what do you do?"

"I approach the cell and open the door without first checking inside the room using the eyehole in the door," stated McKinley hurriedly, "once entering the room I fail to check behind the door and instead immediately assume that the bundle of clothing hidden under the blanket on the bed is the captive prisoner, despite it being half the size of a human. Without taking out my weapon I advance into the room making sure my back is turned on the prisoner who is actually hiding behind the door ready to knock me out by hitting me on the back of the head."

"Most impressive," muttered Voldemort.

"Thank you McKinley," said Murray waving the man back into line, before turning back to Voldemort, "as you can see, they have all been trained to the highest standards required of henchpeople."

Suddenly there was a series of loud cracks and one of the dummies along the wall shuddered at it was hit several times; large splinters erupted from the mannequin before it split in two.

"What was that?" demanded Murray as all eyes fell down the line.

"It was me Mr Murray," replied one of the recruits further down. Voldemort could see that he was holding a black metal tube that still had a wisp of small wafting from the end of it.

"Mr Beardly, I might have known," sighed Murray shaking his head, "what have I told you about guns?"

"I know but I just thought…"

"And look at that," Murray pointed at the destroyed dummy and shaking his head, "you didn't miss even once."

"Yeah, but I figured…"

"Just go and get a dustpan and brush from the janitor's closet and clean it up will you?"

"Yes sir," grumbled Beardly sullenly.

"I'll take that thank you very much," said Murray holding out his hand as the trainee passed. Reluctantly Beardly placed the gun into his hand, "and you can have it back at the end of the day."

"A bright lad that one," admitted Murray shaking his head, "but he just can't get the hang of henchmanning at all. Do you know what he did the other week when we were doing a capturing the hero exercise?"

"What?" asked Voldemort.

"He caught him," said Murray looking astounded, "he actually caught him. No messing around; he just walked straight up to our fake hero, grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back, wrestled him to the floor and sat on him with this big stupid grin on his face."

"Beardly…Beardly," muttered Voldemort to himself, "not any relation to Heinrich Beardly is he?"

"That's his father," agreed Murray, "now there was a henchman."

"Still holds the record for being knocked out the most times in a single day," said Voldemort thoughtfully.

"Good man," sighed Murray rocking back on his feet. A number of seconds past in silence before he turned to Voldemort, "so… now what?"

"To be honest I don't really know," shrugged Voldemort, "normally these stories end up with me blowing something up or some amusing little joke or scene."

"Ah I see," nodded Murray before looking around, "er… is anything like that going to happen this time?"

"Well one of those things would usually have happened by now," said Voldemort looking up at a large clock hung over the doorway, "I'm guessing whoever is writing this story only actually thought about the start and the middle without working out how he would end it."

"That's a bit short sighted of him isn't it? What's he going to do, just have it tail off into nothing?"

"I guess so," admitted Voldemort. He looked back up at the clock, "do you want to go get something for lunch?"

"Why not?" beamed Murray, "I know this lovely quaint little pub down the road, they do a marvellous roast chicken, and the potatoes are to die for."

"Excellent," said Voldemort rubbing his hands together, "Miss Haddington keeps stopping me from having them; she's got me on this carb diet."

"Don't get me started," said Murray as the two men made their way through the door, "my wife is always on at me to cut out red meat, I mean I…"

The door closed behind them, leaving the room of trainees to continue in their exercises. A few minutes passed before the doors were flung back open again and an out of breath Stanley Higgins burst into a room causing everyone to stop and stare at him, although to be fair the fact that he was wearing a weird looking helmet with antennas sticking out of the top.

"S…sorry I'm late," puffed Stanley breathing hard, "I got stuck behind a tractor on the way over here. Oh… where's the Dark Lord."

"He and Mr Murray just stepped out for a bit of lunch," explained the instructor looking Stanley up and down, "why are you dressed like a bug?"

"I'm not a bug," explained Stanley smiling, "I'll think you'll find… I'm an account-_ant_."

"I'm going to lunch," sighed the instructor shaking his head.

"Hey, don't blame me for the joke," complained Stanley pulling a small booklet of paper out of his pocket and waving it at the retreating back of the instructor, "I'm just doing what it says in the script, it's not my fault the writer couldn't come up with a better joke to end the scene."


End file.
